


see you round the bend

by theroadverytravelled



Series: a house a home [2]
Category: Sky High (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Long-Distance Friendship, Mutual Pining, Romantic Fluff, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, being a new young adult and not knowing what the heck you're doing with your life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24925801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroadverytravelled/pseuds/theroadverytravelled
Summary: He feels the solid weight of certainty settle in his gut like a bad meal. He feels it as he watches the bus roll away, getting smaller and smaller before disappearing entirely around a bend, bearing Layla away.He should have kissed her at least once. Attempted to, at least. Taken a chance.Follow-up toset a place at the table.
Relationships: Magenta (Sky High) & Layla Williams, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Warren Peace/Layla Williams
Series: a house a home [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803850
Comments: 14
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic picks up immediately after the end of [set a place at the table](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24159142), after Layla heads back home from her summer roadtrip visiting friends and Warren deals with (in no particular order) his feelings for his friend, his ongoing identity crisis and self-discovery after dropping out of culinary school. I have some ~plans~ for these two and I wanted to lay a hopefully strong foundation first, look further into their lives and who they are and who they are becoming. 
> 
> Thanks as always for reading, comments always appreciated <3

He feels the solid weight of certainty settle in his gut like a bad meal. He feels it as he watches the bus roll away, getting smaller and smaller before disappearing entirely around a bend, bearing Layla away. 

He should have kissed her at least once. Attempted to, at least. Taken a chance. Maybe last night, while drying the dishes she washed, both of them dressed up for dinner. Or last night, sending her back to her hostel, saying good night to her with his fidgeting restless hands stuffed into his pockets. This morning, bringing her to his secret other favourite café that his colleagues can never know he goes to because it’s their direct competition, for the best morning buns in town. Just now before she got on the bus, her holding both his hands and looking up at him with her open, trusting eyes, asking him to keep in touch more. He could’ve leaned down then, tugged her closer to him, cupped her face in his hands and brought their lips together. 

But he didn’t. He definitely thought about it. Oh, he’s thought about it. Every time she beamed at him, every time she laughed, every time a strand of her hair fell into her face, every time she said something that made him smile. 

And now she’s on a bus, and soon she’s going to be all the way across the country again. 

And he didn’t kiss her. 

He might never get to chance to even try and kiss her again. 

If she would even want him to kiss her to begin with. 

“Bro, whose funeral are we planning?” 

Warren blinks. Jacob’s staring at him, paused with a glass and a rag in hand. His senses tune in to the familiar hiss of the espresso machine, the rising and falling chatter of the lunch rush customers, Jenny’s voice audible from all the way back in the kitchen. He’d made his way for his afternoon shift at the cafe with no recollection of how had gotten there from the bus station. 

His coworker is unperturbed by his blank silence, goes back to wiping the glasses clean. “You look like you’re going to murder somebody.” 

Well. Jacob’s not wrong. Warren doesn’t bother replying and heads to the back to their tiny staff closet to stow away his stuff. 

“Samira wants to see you, by the way!” Jacob calls out after him. “She’s in her office.” 

That’s unusual, but he doesn’t think too much about it. Focuses instead on trying to clear the fog out of his head, and pack away thoughts of Layla. He puts his phone in with the rest of his stuff in his locker, because he knows it’ll just be burning a hole in his pocket otherwise, calling for him to check for her texts. Samira’s office is an equally tiny space next to their staff closet so he just has to poke his head in from the door. She looks up from the sheaf of papers in front of her and smiles. 

“Come in, hun. Squeeze in here and close the door if you can. Oh, you’re not in trouble, don’t worry.” Samira adds in response to his raised eyebrow, laughing loud. Everyone in the cafe loves her, which is no mean feat when you’re the boss who has to keep everything afloat and running smoothly to make sure everyone gets paid. Warren likes her level-headedness, likes how he’s never seen her raise her voice if she can put steel in it instead. He also respects how she’s not scared to get her hands dirty, readily pushing the sleeves of her colourful sweaters up to get in with the kitchen crew, fix a leaky sink, sling a latte if they were down a person at the bar. He knows Carmen and Jenny look up to her as the boss lady they both want to be some day. Meanwhile Jacob and Miles live in mild vigilant terror of her in fear of getting chewed out for one of the million things they get wrong every day.

He closes the door behind him and takes a seat in front of her desk. She pats gently at the scarf tying back her voluminous curls, before setting her elbows primly in front of her, palm resting atop the other. It suddenly becomes clear there’s some kind of speech coming, and so he sits up a bit straighter, to match Samira’s good posture. 

“Carmen’s leaving, I’m sure you’ve heard.” His brain goes blank. That’s another thing about their boss — she doesn’t waste words or time. “Oh, you haven’t. Her grandmother’s health has been declining, and she wants to help her family take care of her, and generally move back west. Her and her girlfriend are packing up house — Carmen said they managed to get some jobs lined up through friends.” 

“Oh shit, that’s — that’s a lot.” 

“It seems like she’s coping well with it,” Samira’s voice is kind. “As well as can be expected anyway. She said her family’s talked about this for a while now, so they’re — well, they’re not unprepared. She seemed a little excited too. For the move.” 

“Right. That’s good.” 

“Indeed. I’m sure she’ll share the rest with you directly — she must’ve told me first to settle her notice. Anyway, we’re now officially looking for a new manager, and I wanted to see if you’re up for it, Warren.” 

“Um. Oh.” He wasn’t expecting this. Carmen has been manager here for as long as he’s been with the cafe. Jacob’s more senior, but he knows why Samira’s not offering this to him. Jacob would know why too; wouldn’t take the job anyway if it meant more hours away from focusing on his music. 

Samira tilts her head slightly as she looks at him. “This is surprising you too, hun? Oh for two today. Right, I didn’t think I’d have to give this spiel but — I don’t know what your plans are. And I don’t mean to mother you here, because it’s perfectly okay to not have a plan at your age. I hope you’re thinking about it! But it’s okay to not have one in hand yet. You do good work here, you’re reliable, you’re organised, and your coworkers listen to you. It’s a pay bump — nothing drastic, but it’s something. And I think it’d be good experience, you’d work more closely with me and maybe learn a bit about running a place like this. Carmen suggested you, and I was already thinking about it once I knew she’d be leaving. So, maybe take the day to think about it? And get back to me tomorrow.” 

He nods quietly, body stilling despite his internal rising panic. It feels like he was just barely catching up to everything he was thinking and feeling this morning with Layla and now there’s all this new stuff in front of him and suddenly it’s like the day’s become a Sunday brunch rush with 15 drink tickets on the dock and 20 more coming in. 

“Hey, Warren?” He tries to shake the fog out of his head again, and Samira has a small knowing smile on her face. “Can I ask you something a little personal?” 

He inhales, shrugs. If there’s another curve ball coming, she might as well add it to the pile. “Sure. Go for it.” 

“What is it that you want to do? What do you like to do?” 

“Like, in my spare time?” 

“Like in general. Paint me a picture of what you want your life to look like.” 

“Uh. Huh. I guess…I really like cooking. Learning about it, doing it. Being in a kitchen. Working service can be a b — it can be really hard, but also it’s weirdly rewarding. And I guess…I find I usually like other people who work in service.”

“Me too. And are there — people with your skills, what kind of things do they do after school? Other than the obvious.” 

He ducks his head, smoothing an imaginary hair back. He’d told Samira about his powers early on, mainly out of a sense of responsibility, in case she’d think it was a safety hazard or something. But also because he had a feeling she wouldn’t make a big deal out of it, and be discreet. And he was right. But it still feels awkward discussing it with her, even though he doesn’t quite know why. 

“Um, I think it’s mostly the obvious. I haven’t heard of much else out there.” 

“No special programmes, trainings? They just let you kids loose to do world-saving?” Samira’s voice is wry, and he remembers that she has a young son. That she is a mother, and that’s why she sounds like one at work. She likely wouldn’t stand for her semi-fresh-out-of-high-school not-a-kid-anymore-but-just-starting-to-figure-out-this-adulting-thing son roaming free with powers and no direction. Guilty thoughts of his own mother flash in his mind, because she probably wouldn’t stand for that either. He shakes his head in reply, and Samira’s lips briefly twist before her expression evens out again. 

“Hm. Okay then. Might be something to look into a bit more. There are always options out there, you know? If you wanna stay in food service or explore other parts of it. Or if you wanna explore…your other skills, I’m sure you wouldn’t be the first looking at what else there is. Think about the offer, hun. If you have any questions, you know how to get at me. Can you please go check in with Jenny about the supplies inventory?” 

Warren nods again, takes the dismissal and leaves Samira to her paperwork. He takes a few deep breaths as he heads back to the bar, as he readies himself for his shift. Pushes down everything he’s just heard in Samira’s office all the way back to the memory of Layla thumbing away a smudge of jam on his cheek this morning. Later. He’ll deal with all that later. 


	2. Chapter 2

Warren’s lying down on top of his covers by 11pm. After work, he managed a quick dinner from leftovers in the fridge and a shower and he’s out of energy after that. The ceiling’s staring back at him before he slides a thumb across his phone screen, brings up the message Layla had sent earlier telling him she’s arrived at her halfway point where she’ll be staying the night before finally heading to Magenta and Zach the next day. She’d sent a selfie of her face half smushed by the motel pillow, eyes gently closed.   
  
**From: Layla**   
Don’t tell anyone but I miss my bed back home  
Glad I talked myself out of taking the bus all the way back after Maj 😝  
  
 **From: Warren**  
i’m amazed u managed to win an argument w yourself  
go to bed hippie. gnight  
  
 **From: Layla**  
Goodnight, Warren 🌸  
  
He lingers on the photo for a few more seconds before closing the chat window and pulling up his contacts. Doesn’t let himself pause before he’s calling his mother.   
  
Gabrielle Peace picks up on the second ring. “Warren? Is everything alright — are you okay?”   
  
It’s a few hours earlier where she is, back home in Maxville. Warren imagines what she might be up to — a simple dinner with a book and a glass of wine, one of her favourite records on. A phone call with one of her sisters as she loads the dishwasher and cleans up. She might already be ready for bed. It’s a weeknight after all.   
  
“Mom, I’m okay. Everything’s fine. How are you?”   
  
Gaby scoffs, which makes him smile. He imagines her frowning with the phone squeezed between her cheek and shoulder, purely to cross her arms at him from hundred of miles away. “Is this really my son? Calling his mother unexpectedly just to ask after her?”   
  
“Would you rather I never did this?”   
  
“There’s no need to get smart with me. Anyway. I’m fine, thank you for asking. Weather’s been lovely in the evenings, so I’ve been having dinner out on the porch. Put some Carly on to listen to tonight.”   
  
For as long as Warren could remember their house always had records, packed in crates just like when Gaby was in college herself. “Sounds nice, mom. What did you have? Work’s been good?”   
  
“Just a little goat’s cheese ravioli. Your aunt dropped off a lemon tart and I had a bit of that for dessert,” Gaby’s voice loses the sharpness of her initial greeting, and he hears noises in the background as if she’s doing something else while she’s on the phone. Maybe walking through the living room, tidying up or putting away the cutlery in the kitchen. It’s a comforting image, thinking of his mother moving through familiar paths in the house he grew up in. Living a quiet life but a good one. Safe. “Work’s fine, my love. Paperwork and more paperwork. I’ve been getting into some podcasts while I work on my spreadsheets.” Her laugh is a pleasant rumble in his ear.   
  
Warren was so young when Barron went to prison. It was a story — still is the story — that took over his whole life. His father was absent even before it all went to shit, but he was the brightest presence in the room when he was around. Warren thought he was everything. In contrast, his mother was always around, always there, all too easy to take for granted. And after his dad got put away, her presence only got stronger, she was so scared to let Warren out of her sight. In the interests of their safety, Gaby changed everything else. Took back her last name, changed Warren’s, started going by her nickname, she even cropped her hair short and dyed it from its chestnut brown to something darker. Moved them to another neighbourhood.   
  
His mother’s story felt so quiet in comparison, but once Warren got to high school he started getting more curious. Gabrielle Peace, as far as he knew, from his furtive reading and research in Sky High’s libraries, was one of the most promising molecular manipulators of the time in her younger days. She could crumble a wall to dust without making a sound, reformulate the atoms into a wrecking ball. She could make metal soft as silk thread, reshape concrete into slush. He thinks that was a big part of why Barron was attracted to her. How she could use her power to destroy. But Warren remembers the nights she’d tuck him into bed, how she’d mold his plastic blocks into new shapes like someone handling Play Doh, and how they’d be boring old blocks again by morning. He remembers all the things she used to create.   
  
Before the arrest, before Barron’s plans exploded so spectacularly, she was a reluctant superhero at best, refusing to even commit to a name like her counterparts. Warren had seen the newspaper clippings of journalists trying instead. Transformer Girl, Matter Magician. His favourite was Morphia. She walked away from all of it the day her now ex-husband got caught, exposed in a years long conspiracy plot of destruction he’d been building in all his time away. Warren doesn’t remember seeing her use her powers ever again after that.   
  
Instead, she turned over everything of Barron’s to the investigators, complied with everything they needed to clear her name and Warren’s, asked them for privacy in return. She decided to go to college and pick up accounting, passed her exams with flying colours, got a job with a respectable firm. She’d told him she liked accounting because of the soothing nature of numbers. How they could be moved around and transformed and ordered. He still doesn’t quite understand it, but back when he was a kid, he used to think his mom was living a life ruled by fear, focused only on hiding.   
  
But then — she stayed where people knew them and his father, never had him hide his powers. She sent him to Sky High, after all. It was Gaby who sat him down before his first day to tell him the weight of the legacy he came from, and what it would mean to carry that. What it would mean to build his own story from and outside of that. She faced every accusation hurled her way — co-conspirator, secret villain, bad mother, worse wife — and never flinched from it. The neighbours stopped talking so loud when she didn’t give quarter, perfected her poker face. Then other things became more interesting to talk about, and the quiet accountant single mother with the brooding teenage son became part of the neighbourhood fabric. Boring as dirt. Unremarkable. Just like she’d planned.   
  
“I know you didn’t call near to midnight just to ask me about accounting, Warren. Tell me how’s everything been with you. Have you been feeding yourself?”   
  
“Mom, if you saw the amount of muffins and cookies and sandwich rejects we get at work, you’d maybe tell me to stop eating so much.”   
  
“Please don’t tell me all you’re eating is scraps from work! What’s the last thing you made for yourself?”   
  
He doesn’t tell her about the quick egg and scallion fried rice he put together for dinner earlier. Thinks back instead to a more respectable meal.   
  
“I made some potstickers the other night. Had it with some charred broccoli tossed in sauteed onion, garlic, some red pepper flakes. You would’ve liked that.”   
  
“I would’ve, sounds lovely. And how’re things at the cafe?”   
  
“Good, busy. Uh. Carmen’s going to be leaving though. Moving back west to be with her family.”   
  
“Ah, the manager? She’s the short bubbly one, right? Is everything okay back home for her?”   
  
“It’s — her grandma’s sick. Or she’s been sick. And getting worse.”   
  
His mother hums a noise of understanding. That hum reminds Warren how there’s so much they don’t talk about. His mother’s family stepped in in a big way after Barron’s arrest — his grandparents and aunts, even his wary uncles and cousins. He’s never met anyone from his father’s family, ever. He’s asked about them once, when he was maybe 12, and he’s never forgotten the heaviness in her face as she faced him. The hesitation in her voice as she said that when she had met his father, he was entirely alone and happy to be entirely alone. She’d never pried further than that. How she felt about prying after Barron was jailed, she never said.   
  
Warren doesn’t like thinking of all the things he doesn’t know.   
  
“Well, I hope she and her family get to meaningfully be with her grandmother while they have this time with her. I wish them the best.”   
  
“Thanks mom. I’ll tell her that.” He doesn’t know why it’s hard to say the rest when it’s the reason he’s called. He clears his throat. “Samira’s offered to make me manager. I’m probably going to take her up on it.”   
  
“Oh well that’s good news! A promotion!” Her voice ticks up an octave, the congratulations in it sincere. “That’s a mark of trust in you, less than a year there. I’m proud of you.”   
  
He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath, lets a moment pass to take another one so he can be sure his voice is even when he says thank you.   
  
“I hope you celebrate a little bit. Go out with some friends, maybe go out with a girl.”   
  
“Oh my god, _mom_.” Her laughter rumbles through the phone again, and Warren puts his whole palm over his face because molecular manipulation or no, his mom still retains the power to embarass him from anywhere in the world.  
  
“Just because I’m your mother doesn’t mean I’m a prude, you know? You’re young, this is the time to meet people, make connections. Or reconnect even. Are you still talking to that girl, oh — what’s her name again?”   
  
He feels a little wobble inside of him. Could she be talking about…  
  
“Was it Emma? The one with the — with all the…ice?”   
  
How Gaby can hold all those numbers and spreadsheets and worrying about her only son in her head and STILL retain the name of said son’s first high school girlfriend is a sheer mystery. Warren feels mildly offended that his mother thinks his socialising is so dire the only girl that would still be interested in him is the first one that ever was.   
  
“Yes, it was Emma. We haven’t spoken since I was 16? 17? After we broke up in junior year, she pretended I didn’t exist. She’s probably still pretending that.”   
  
Gaby laughs again, not unkindly. “Sounds like me with my first boyfriend. We were 8, and he told his best friend I had cooties. Never spoke to him again after that.” He chuckles at that, and there’s a pleasant lull between them.   
  
“You’re a ways away from 17 now — I hope you know I know that, and that I see that. I won’t get corny on you. I’m just saying. You’re grown up and growing up. You’re figuring things out.”   
  
Warren just breathes, feels his eyeballs prickle and closes his eyes. He hears his mother breathe on the other line, the quiet hum of their quiet house and her in it. Safe.   
  
“I am. And I’m okay. Thanks, mom. I’m glad I got you on the phone.”   
  
“You know I’ll always pick up, my love. Although maybe give me a text first next time so I don’t think you’re in some kind of horrible motorcycle accident?”   
  
“I’ll try and remember next time. Speak again soon. Good night, mom.”   
  
“Good night, Warren. Love you.”   
  
“I love you too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up with Warren's mom's name was a nightmare! I'm so interested in their relationship, who she is as a person, a mother, a superhero!!, a person who fell in love with and married and had a child with Barron, Barron's family etc etc etc. I don't know how far I'll delve into it in any future fic, but I wanted to definitely dig a level deeper into those questions in this chapter. Hopefully I didn't do too badly! Shout out to all single moms everywhere, y'all really are superheroes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to spoil anything, but this chapter has some minor mentions of past Layla/Will, cursing, as well as discussions of queerness, coming out, and non-monogamous relationships.

“So, are you a changed woman now? After your big girl journey across the country?” Magenta’s voice is as flat as it ever is, but she’s got a glint in her eye she’s aiming right at Layla across the top of the coffee cup she’s holding up. 

It’s Layla’s last day of her trip, and Magenta has taken her out for breakfast at a greasy spoon down the road from the train station, where she’ll take an express train to the airport to board a flight home. The road outside the diner windows is bustling, and she’s really enjoying the sight, watching the world go by. She twirls the end of her braid around her finger and sighs a sigh both happy and sad.

“It’s been such a good journey. A part of me can’t even believe I’m here, so far from home — the farthest I’ve been in my life! Maj, did you feel like this when you got here for school?” 

Magenta leans her cheek against a closed fist and joins Layla in looking out the window. “I’ve gotten that feeling maybe once or twice. Mostly when I miss my brothers, weirdly enough. I guess when I miss home. But when I first got here — no fuckin’ way. I was like, holy shit I’m finally out of there, finally far away, finally somewhere new.” 

Layla smiles in response. “Makes sense. This place — your school, this city — it all seems to fit you so well.” 

Magenta shrugs, but she smiles too. “Thank God for scholarships.” 

“Thank God for your dazzling artistic talent.” 

She gets an eye roll in response just like she knew she would, and Layla is struck by how fiercely she’s missed her friend, how fiercely she’ll miss her again after she leaves. It has been an amazing trip, full of so many delightful memories; her journals are filled with pages of writing and recordings, her camera roll full of photographs, a pocket of her backpack filled with little souvenirs. But her heart’s heavy too, heavy with the fact of saying goodbye, of not knowing when she’ll see her friends again. 

“So like, what the fuck is going to happen with you and Warren now? Can Hothead handle long distance? All that stoicism, but I feel like he’d be a softie about this shit, especially when it comes to you.” 

Layla’s cheeks heat up immediately, and if she didn’t know Magenta she’d maybe try and hide it. She looks down at the remnants of her pancakes instead, draws the tines of her forks through a thin puddle of syrup. 

“There’s nothing _happening_ , Maj. There’s just. It’s still the same between us.” 

She doesn’t need to lift her eyes to _feel_ Magenta’s epic eye roll this time. 

“That’s the point though, Layls. You guys have been friends for years, when actually you guys really want to be friends who jump each other’s bones.” 

Magenta dodges the napkin thrown her way, laughs at Layla’s dropped open jaw, the increased redness of her cheeks.

“What do you even know?!” Layla drags the last syllable in a long whine, something she’ll only allow herself with a friend like Magenta or Will. It only makes her friend’s grin sharper, full of delight from needling Layla. “You literally have not seen us together for a couple years now.” 

“Layla, I don’t need to have seen you guys together in the past couple years. Exhibit A, you send him care packages. Exhibit B, you have always, from Day 1, been the one he talks to more than he does with any of the rest of us, and that’s still the case. Exhibit C, he SMILED when we surprise FaceTimed him the other day and he saw your face. He like, hid it straight away, but I saw it! Guinea pigs have really good eyesight you know.” 

“I highly doubt the accuracy of that statement.” 

“I saw it. Exhibit D!” Magenta talks over Layla’s loud groan. “I wish we could time travel back to when you told me about your DATE with him — don’t contradict me! You KNOW that’s what it was, you as much as said it yourself — so you could just look at your own face. That’s all. Just one look. Your face. Talking about Warren making you soup. Drying the dishes and the VIBES he was giving off. Don’t cover your ears, missy — remember the vibes? The I wanna kiss your face off vibes?” 

“Okay, well what about you and Zach, what is even happening there!” Layla’s heart is racing a little, remembering everything she’d been trying not to dwell on too much since she left Warren’s town. It’s low hanging fruit as far as tactics go, but at least Magenta leans back into her seat. She’s rolling her eyes again, but she seems to be off the defense attorney track. 

“Literally nothing, Layla. We covered this.” 

“I wish you’d told me about you guys before I came.” Her voice is gentle when she says it, out of a fear of coming across hostile. Because it really was a surprise to hear Magenta calmly explaining to her on her first night with them, Zach right next to her, that they were no longer an item. Zach was doing well being casual about it, grinning through the conversation still, likely not wanting to ruin their reunion. But Layla knows how strong that crush was in freshman year, how deep feelings can run with your firsts. It’s not exactly a surprise that Magenta and Zach would break up, but her heart had twinged when they’d told her, panicked with the memory of Warren not having told her about culinary school. She knows it’s not about her, but she couldn’t help but feel a little hurt, and a little concerned about whether this was some kind of pattern, some kind of indication of a failing she didn’t know she had as a friend. 

“Well.” Magenta sighs, and her face softens just a touch. “I’m sorry about that. It felt weird to say out loud at first, and then I kept blanking when we’d FaceTime, and I figured okay next time. I think…” Magenta inhales deeply, and Layla stills, bracing for what’s next. “I think I still felt…really fucking tender about it all at the start. I care about Zach, you know that.” 

“I do, of course I do.” 

“And he was so good when I came out as bi, he’s always been so understanding, just like so eager to please me and make me happy. And then I was like okay, but what do you want? What makes _you_ happy? It can’t just be me. You know?” 

Layla nods fervently, a sudden lump in her throat. From Magenta’s knowing look, it’s clear she knows Layla is also thinking about Will. Because that’d been the problem, kind of, when they broke up right before junior year. That’d been the problem, definitely, when they had a semi-drunken conversation when she was with Nick after high school, and he’d asked if she’d ever thought about them getting back together. She loves Will, and she loves Zach, but she can see this similarity they have, this eagerness that overtakes and sometimes steamrolls, the space they don’t make for the hard stuff, the hard stuff they need to be with so they can know themselves better. And it sucks that Zach is likely hurting from this, as Will was hurting when Layla broke up with him, and maybe again that second time when she said no, she didn’t think about them getting back together. But maybe the two of them needed — well, not that they needed to hurt. But hard changes still move you forward. 

“Anyway. I think I was starting to drop hints. That I was thinking about dating other people. Girls, obviously. Not my best move, but I was hella scared. Layls, he like — he looked up ethical non-monogamy. Zach. _Our_ Zach. Really pitched it to me too. Not in a creepy threesome way or anything, he was bringing up words like, ugh, like polycule. It was terrible.” 

Layla puts her hand on her chest, feeling a surge of both affection and sadness for her two friends. “Was he… actually into the idea?” 

Magenta’s dead-eyed unimpressed stare is so deeply familiar it makes Layla laugh with relief. “Layls. I don’t even know how to convey to you the…the flustered…desperation and awkwardness of that conversation. I’m proud he’s so open-minded about something that I thought would have freaked him out but. It wasn’t what he really wanted, and I knew that.” 

“Right, yeah. Sorry, I had to ask. Are… are you into the idea?”

“I mean, I don’t know! But like, definitely not right now when I’m still figuring shit out and scared as fuck, and I don’t even know how to tell another girl like hey, I’m into you. In a gay way. You too? So, TBD on the ethical non-monogamy.” 

“That’s fair enough.” A wondering arises in Layla, a question suddenly at the tip of her tongue of — well, is this maybe not final? Is a door open for something to happen when you guys both figure things out? 

But it’s not the time. Not when Magenta has decided to step out of that door to go seeking new things that she needs to find for herself. And didn’t she ask the same questions of herself when she broke up with Will? And what happened with that, eventually. Things grow and get bigger, people change, space opens up for other things. Layla reaches across the table to grab her friend’s hand and squeeze it. 

“I get why you didn’t tell me before. I’m sorry I took it personally — I gotta work on that. And you don’t need me to tell you this, but you know yourself so well even when you think you don’t, and I’m so excited to see you really go on this queer self-discovery journey. Zach will be okay. You’ll be okay too.”

“Don’t get me soppy, ugh, I hate you.” Magenta squeezes back, and her smile is small but bright. “Okay enough of this bullshit. Really. What are your plans after all this?” 

Layla smiles, giving her one last squeeze before taking back her hand. “I still have a few weeks left of my break, and at first I was going back to work at the college co-op but then I thought, you know what? I’m going to try doing some nothing before I go back to school. I’ve pretty much figured out my third year anyway — classes and my schedule and whatever else. Also…I think I’m going to go for a Masters after I finish undergrad. Just…I’ve been considering it. So, might need to talk to some of my lecturers about that when the semester starts back up.” 

“Why am I not surprised by that at all. That sounds great, Layls. And you deserve to do a bit of nothing, in between all of this studying to solve climate change and seducing the hearts of brooding pyrokinetics.” 

Layla’s the one to roll her eyes now. “Alright, are you ready to go? We still need to drop by the post office before the train.” 

They flag down a waitress for the bill, Magenta animatedly waving off Layla from putting down any money. The sun and the people are still out when they leave the diner and get on the street, Magenta leading the way to the post office a few doors down. 

“Are you sending postcards?” She asks casually, throwing the question over her shoulder at Layla trudging behind her with her bag. 

Layla hums yes, decidedly not explaining that what she has are two postcards — one for her mom and the other for one of her favourite lecturers — but the really important thing she wants to mail is a letter, tucked inside a creamy white envelope with Warren’s name and address printed on the front. 

Magenta falls back a bit right before they go inside the post office, throws an arm over Layla’s shoulders and smacks a loud kiss to her cheek. A woman passing nearby is startled by the sound and they both giggle. “I’m so glad you came, Layls. I’m going to miss you like fucking crazy the next few weeks.” 

“Me too, Maj.” Layla beams, burrowing further into Magenta’s side. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It felt RIGHT to have Magenta be someone who enjoys cursing and does it frequently, lol


	4. Chapter 4

**From Warren:**   
how’s doing nothing going?

When his phone pings he sees first the picture Layla’s sent. A slightly awkward selfie from the way her arms are stretched towards the phone, but a stunning vista of the early evening sky, far away mountains and trees behind her smiling face. Layla takes up the bottom right corner of the photo, tongue cheekily stuck out and her hair held back from her face with a green bandanna. 

**From Layla:**  
After hiking all those miles to get here and finding a good camping site and setting up the tent — great! 😄  
Took me wayyyy too long to get the fire started  
Should’ve had you here for that

He bites the inside of his cheek, his fingers hesitantly hovering over his phone’s keyboard with everything else he could say, wants to say. He can conjure up the image so clearly in his mind of Layla in the woods, sitting at the entrance of her tent with her knees drawn up and her arms around them, the fire going nearby, her eyes trained on the sky just soaking everything in. How can he see this all, he wonders, when he’s never camped with her? 

“Hey, careful.” Warren’s attention is jerked up from the empty message he has open; he’d accidentally bumped against someone else walking on the street. They’re not looking back at him when he turns to apologise but it pushes him to finish off his text. 

**From Warren:**  
next time, maybe  
have fun hippie don’t get eaten by bears

He clicks send and shoves his phone in his pocket, hoping wildly that she gets the text and it makes her smile and also that her phone connection cuts out while she’s in the woods. Her texts have been unnerving him, unsettling him. Mundane missives about such little things, and yet he’s hooked and eager for each one. Although he never spends too much time in their exchanges, doesn’t let himself when he’s both hopeful and despairing at this open line between them, the small pings they send each other back and forth. Because what’s the use, ultimately, if it’s all just going to stay like this? All his wanting and nothing coming of it. Everything staying small, cautious, tentative. That’s not how something grows, is it? Layla might know. 

“Warren!” Carmen’s shriek shakes him out of his melancholy reverie. She’s all in black and holding the door open to the bar he’s been walking to, looking like a mini bouncer except too friendly to be at all intimidating. He can tell from how her eyes have disappeared behind her glasses and into her bright ecstatic smile that she’s had a few. He smiles back at her and lets himself be pulled into a tight hug. “Yes, good, no frowny faces tonight!” 

“Sorry, I think that’s just how my face is.” 

It cracks Carmen up, and that makes him feel better. She pulls him inside to a corner of the busy hip bar, everyone looking painfully cool and artfully lit in the red neon cast of the signs on the wall behind the bar, everything brick and copper and black matte steel. Jacob had suggested it for Carmen’s going away and no one liked arguing with Jacob when it came to picking bars. 

Carmen catches him scoping the place out and tugs at his sleeve so he’ll bend down a bit, and then she whisper-shouts in his ear, “I know, I know, but the beer’s cheap here! And Jacob knows the people behind the bar and scoring us half-off shots.”

They reach the corner everyone’s taken up, and Warren nods around at the familiar faces. Jacob and his on-again off-again girlfriend Tara, Jenny waving brightly next to him. Then there’s Sienna, Carmen’s girlfriend, deep in conversation with Miles and Armand, one of the kitchen staff. Jules, the cook, claps Warren on the shoulder, just back and bearing a round of drinks from the bar. There are a few others he doesn’t recognise, Carmen’s friends, and she does her best with names although they dissolve into the noise as soon as she says them. Everyone smiles politely at each other anyway, and Warren grabs a space that sort of opens up between Sienna and Jenny, Carmen choosing to sit across them. 

A bottle’s put in front of him as soon as he sits down and he’s grateful for it, grateful for tonight — sad as the circumstances are — grateful for being absorbed into the noise, the group, the chatter, anything that isn’t the undertow of his own thoughts right now. He turns and asks Jenny how things are going with her new side hustle (selling cross-stitch art and knitted scarves online, if he remembers right), lets her excited talking wash over him, lets the beers fuzz the edges of things and soon enough the night’s fun, easy. 

One of Carmen and Sienna’s friends — Kaya — a gregarious butch with an undercut and dyed red hair comes over and regales Jacob, Tara, and Warren with their sleeves of tattoos and the stories behind each of them. It’s revealed that Armand is a budding knitter, which delights everyone, and he and Jenny huddle over her phone to look at patterns and cool yarns. Miles reenacts the entirety of a B-grade creature feature he’s recently watched, and Jules is so amused he’s gasping for breath from laughing. 

The night spins out further, drinks keep coming and people split off in different pairs for a smoke, for a quick dance by the bar with Sienna in all her sequins, for the bathroom, for whatever else. More new faces come, names get repeated over and over, but with good cheer. Carmen finds him during a quiet lull when he’s nursing his — fourth? fifth? — bottle, when things seem just at the edge of starting to wind down. He’s softened enough that his tongue’s looser. 

“I’m gonna miss you, you know?” 

“Aww, Warren!” This time he returns Carmen’s surprise hug. “Oh I like you drunk, you get sweeter. I’m gonna miss you too, you goof. I’m gonna miss everyone.” 

She breaks apart and points an accusing finger at him, jabs it into his chest. “I know you’re better at texting now, so you better text me after I leave. I know I’m not Layla, but I’m your friend and I was your manager and I also deserve texts!” 

“Ooh, are we talking about Layla?” Jenny materialises seeming out of nowhere on Warren’s other side, setting down her drink and putting her abundant black hair up in a tight bun as if she’s preparing for something. Her eyes shine eagerly under her blunt bangs and it makes him a bit wary, but Carmen waves her off, swaying a bit with the movement. 

“Jenny, remember what I said about teasing him! You can’t do it just because I won’t be here anymore.” 

“Ugh, alright alright.” Jenny rolls her eyes, takes up her drink to leave. Warren knows better than to even ask what any of that means, and he’s sure he’ll find out soon enough. He turns back to Carmen. 

“I’ll try my best to text. I wanna hear about the new place you’ll be working, what it’ll be like. The people and stuff.” 

Carmen nods, smiling. “Definitely. Hey. I’m really glad you decided to take Samira’s offer. She told me you weren’t so sure at first.” 

He shrugs at that. He’s still not really sure, but it feels like he should at least give it a try. Especially with Samira and Carmen’s votes of confidence. 

“Did Sam give you the mom spiel about figuring your shit out?” 

“What, you too?” 

“Yup. I _started_ as manager, see. The one before me quit kinda suddenly, and I saw the ad up when I was passing by. I’d managed a bar before, and before that a kinda rinky dink restaurant. I thought okay, let’s see if I can add a cafe to the list. She looks at my resume or whatever once, and she’s just like. What’s your deal, what do you actually want to do?” 

“Samira did not ask you what your deal is.” His deep voice is deadpan and it just makes Carmen giggle. 

“I’m paraphrasing!”

“So, did you spill your guts to her about what you want to do? Did you figure your shit out?” 

“Oh hell no! Oh my God, I didn’t know then and I don’t think I know now. But it was great of her to ask, it made me think more deeply about stuff, and I feel like some of the questions she asked me then about how I pictured my life, kinda guided me after that. I’d hear it when I was making decisions — I heard it when my dad called me about my grandma. It helped me visualise it. Being close to them, reconnecting with my family. But also just, having a new scene you know? Things were getting stale here. Sienna’s been wondering about you know. Our future. When I think of it, I see my family and I see her. So.” 

Carmen blows out a big breath, maybe a bit winded by sharing all that, but she continues. “You know, I think Samira asks everyone that comes to work for her the same question? We should ask Jacob. And Jenny. And Miles. But I’m pretty sure she does. She probably has all us young, wayward, directionless…weirdos come to her cafe all the time. Trynna get some extra cash or a pit stop in between things, or whatever. I mean, I was so scared when she asked me that, and after the interview I was sure I’d botched it with my non-answer. But she hired me. She hired Jacob. She hired you. So I’m thinking maybe it’s not so much about how we answer, but asking us the question. Getting us to ask ourselves the question, and whatever comes after that is our business.” 

Warren is quiet as all of that sinks in. The silence isn’t unpleasant, and Carmen leans her head against his shoulder in a friendly way, kicking her feet from where they dangle a little on the bar stools they’re sitting on. 

“It’s a weird hiring strategy for a cafe owner.” 

“Yeah, but that’s why we get along with her. Weird like us.” 

“Hey Carmen?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I hope things work out for your grandmother. And your family. Actually — my mom sends her best wishes to all of you. Says she hopes you guys get to meaningfully be with her while you have the time.” 

She clumsily pats his knee pressed against hers. “Thanks, Warren. That’s really nice. Of your mom, and you. We’ll be okay. Even when it’s not so okay.” 

“We can text about that too, okay?” 

She lifts her head and smiles up at him. “Oh I really like sweet Warren. He’s a keeper.” 

***

A week after Carmen’s going away, Warren comes back home at the end of his first shift as manager, and Darius is in the living room in the middle of a Star Wars marathon. 

“Hey dude.” 

“Hey.” Warren has half a mind to join him; he can see Princess Leia on the screen, and the original trilogy seems like it’d be a nice way to decompress. The day wasn’t extraordinarily hectic — being manager has so far felt like a level up he can handle okay — but it was still long and full. 

“Mail for you on the kitchen table.” 

The minute he sees his name in that looping script, and the Earth Day Forever stamp in the corner, he knows he won’t be joining Darius. 

“Thanks, D.” Warren throws out to his housemate as he hurries back to his room, closing the door and putting his bag down in his desk chair and toeing off his shoes before he gets into bed to lie down and look up at the envelope in his hands. He slowly unsticks the seal, pulls out a letter, and another smaller unmarked envelope. He unfolds the letter first and begins to read it. 

> _Dear Warren,_
> 
> _It’s past midnight and I can’t sleep. Maj is knocked out and snoring, so I hope me scratching this out under my blanket with my phone light on won’t wake her._
> 
> _I leave back home tomorrow, and I’m so full of every feeling. I’m so…is it right to say I’m proud of myself? Can I say that? I feel like if you were with me, you’d say I can totally say that, so I will. I thought this was maybe a small trip, and maybe for someone else it probably IS a small trip. But I went across this country, and saw so many new things, and went further from home than I’ve ever been, all on my own (although of course, I was lucky to have my friends along the way). I wonder if you felt this way when you went on your gap year? If you felt the same sense of the world opening up for you?_
> 
> _I’ve got all these questions now to ask you, and I wish I had asked them when I was visiting. Isn’t it funny how that works? But I guess I can still ask them, right? And we can still talk like we did — like we do — when we’re together in the same place. This is probably a cliche, but I feel like this little roadtrip has made me want even more than I did, like it taught me that there’s actually more. I probably intellectually knew that before I left home, but now I know it in almost a physical way. I wonder if you feel like that when you make a decision. Like leaving culinary school, leaving Maxville._
> 
> _There I go, wondering again. It’s just that when I think about all these feelings, and feel all of them, the person I imagine telling is you and all your intense listening. I just have this feeling deep down like you’d just get it. I hope that’s true anyway :)_
> 
> _I’m sending you a record. Maybe it’s even a gift, I don’t know. Maj made it when her, Zach, and me went to these amazing botanical gardens they have here. It’s special enough for being handdrawn (she’s already scanned it to send me a digital version) but also I think it captures where I’m at right now. This Layla discovering so much, opening up to things she didn’t even know about before now, and so excited by that. I’ve already got all these new questions to bring back to my life back home, back at college, back with everything I’m used to. Who knows who I’ll be next time you see me! So at least there’ll always be this._
> 
> _Wow I really went on. Thanks as always for listening (reading!) I’ll talk to you soon._
> 
> _Love,_  
>  _Layla_

His heart races, expanding like a growing balloon, moving in wild frantic waves. He tears open the flap of the other envelope, a little less careful but still mindful of the fragility of what it could contain. It’s a bit of sketchpad paper, he recalls seeing Magenta carting those around back in school, small enough to hide away in a backpack and whip out in class to doodle in under her desk. 

The sketch is in colored pencil, soft smudged lines with rough thick strokes combined. It’s of Layla — a sequence of Laylas, almost like a comic. Bright greens and purples and reds and sky blue in the background denoting their day at the gardens, and then a first Layla facing slightly away, looking pensively at something. A second sketch of her mid-laugh it looks like, every element of her face opening and wide. And then the last sketch of her, looking slightly down and away again, almost like the first but slightly different. The likeness is close, and Warren’s unsurprised. The sketch definitely looks like care’s been put into it, but all he really needs to know is it was by Magenta’s hand, led by her careful keen eyes, and most of all led by the love she has for Layla. 

And Layla has given it to him to keep. As a record. And a gift. He gets up from the bed and walks over to the bit of wall between the door and his desk, takes down a couple of old postcards and carefully pins the sketch in their place. After a few moments standing back to look at it, he reaches over into his bag for his phone, and carefully holds it up, taking his time to make sure everything is in the right position before snapping a photo. 

***

**From: Warren**  
[Picture attachment]  
i do get it  
i felt the same when i went away, like you  
like suddenly the world got bigger & i didn’t even know it cd get bigger like that  
& then all i wanted after that was to see it get even bigger  
you shd be proud, layla  
i’m proud of you too  
i think anyone who knows you knows you’re gonna build some amazing things  
make great things happen  
thx for writing me a letter  
& maj’s sketch  
sharing it w me  
they’re really special to me & i’m excited i get to see this sketch every day now  
i miss you a lot  
don’t change so much  
i want to still recognise you when i see you next  
i like you just as you are  
i hope you’re doing well  
and i hope the world back home doesn’t feel too small  
(i trust you’re already working on making it bigger)  
sending love   
w

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was outlining this fic, one of my favourite notes to self was for this chapter: "Carmen is QUEER and has a gf, so jot that down." If anyone watches Steven Universe, I sort of saw her as having a bit of chirpy Sadie energy, especially in the later seasons when Sadie becomes a rock star.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sprinkle in some Cantonese for the dumpling order and one Spanish word Layla uses - hover over for translations. Thanks to my friends A & M who were a huge help for the dumpling order (we're all Southeast Asians so this is the dim sum we know!) and to A - who speaks Spanish - for giving me the name of the restaurant (I hate naming things I'm so bad at it!)

It’s chilly tonight, although nowhere near the kind of winters Warren had gotten used to over the last couple years. He’s missed the milder weather. He surveys the street in front of him, looks at the lit up storefronts and the fairy lights strung from lamp post to lamp post. Imagines Layla walking these streets after classes, with her friends, running errands, on her way back to the new apartment she moved into a few months ago, after deciding she was done with dorm life. It’s not a town he knows, but there’s a familiarity he feels being in it from the pictures Layla loves sending him, little snapshots from her day with this place as the backdrop. 

It doesn’t quite compare to seeing the real thing — Layla in a dark green coat, faux fur trimming a wide hood she’s pulled up, her red hair thick and spilling out the sides of her face, walking down the street towards him with a smile getting brighter with every step. 

“Warren, hey.” Her voice is a little breathless, and he doesn’t have time to respond before she’s hugging him tight, and his body doesn’t hesitate to curve around her, return her embrace, hold her close to him. Her hood slips and he buries his nose in her hair, inhaling the sweet, clean smell of her. Before he knows it, she’s pulled away, but not before pressing a quick, surprising kiss to his cheek. He feels like everything’s happening on a five second lag. 

“Oh it’s so good to see you.” She’s bouncing a little on her feet, and his cheek is tingling still. He watches her lips go from smiling to a surprised little ‘o’, watches his own hands cup her face, and time goes slow-fast-slow-fast-fast-fast and suddenly he’s realising he’s just about to pull her in and kiss her, and he stops. 

Layla puts a hand up to touch his hand on her cheek, a question in her eyes. 

“You’re cold, hippie,” He manages to get out, trying to keep his voice light. “Long walk?” He channels a gentle warmth from his palms, and watches her shoulders loosen just a touch. He takes his hands away from her face, embarassed, slides them down her arms for one last burst of heat before pulling them entirely away from her. He hopes he hasn’t already done the wrong thing, hasn’t offended her, doesn’t know what to even say that isn’t _Sorry, I got carried away because I finally figured out I’ve been wanting to kiss you for probably the past year. If not longer._

“Oh, am I? The walk wasn’t too long, but it has been getting colder.” Layla giggles, patting a bit at her face. “Anyway. I’ll get warmer when we get inside. Come on.”

They turn to enter the dim sum place she’d suggested, and she fills the air with her usual chatter. She asks about his drive here from Maxville, how his mom is doing, if it was hard to find parking. His insides do something funny when he realises she’s nervous, and he feels a small helpless smile grow on his face. 

The place is fairly full, big families and groups filling up large round faux marble tables with the lacquer inlays and the lazy Susans in the middle. They get a much smaller table for two in a slightly quieter corner, and the warm glow of the classy frosted glass fixtures makes the restaurant feel a little cosier despite how busy it is. He asks her to order for them, deferentially closing his menu, thinking that a task might help her with any nerves. Sure enough, she gives a firm nod at his request, scans the menu once and then confidently asks for lin yong pau, jin toi, two orders of har gow and lo mai gai for him, an order of how yau choy sum and rice for her, dan dat, and a pot of pu er tea. 

“Of course you pick a place that has chopsticks.” He smiles as he says it, picking up a lacquered red pair from the long wooden box the waiter had left behind.

“We’re chopstick enthusiasts, Warren. It only felt right.” She says this with a straightened spine, her chin haughtily set, but with a playful look around her eyes. “And sushi didn’t feel like a good fit for this kind of weather.” 

She looks so good. She’s wearing dainty daisy earrings and a white long sleeved top, that criss-crosses a bit at the front, wrapping around her and tapering at her waist, hugging her figure. She’s wearing a small pendant on a thin silver chain and it rests low on her chest, and Warren moves his eyes to her face very quickly and deliberately. 

“If you’re ever up for sushi, there’s actually a decent place a bit out of Maxville — I remember there being good vegetarian options. Mom took me once. But also I think we should explore foods that require other eating implements.” 

“Oh?” Layla wields a chopstick of her own like a small sword and taps it against the pair he holds in his right hand. “And what do you suggest?” 

“I was looking up places, and there were some good reviews for an Ethiopian restaurant a few streets away. Have you ever had injera?” Warren leans in conspiratorially. “You eat it with your hands.” 

Their banter rolls on through waiting and through their food arriving. They trade turns suggesting different types of food and cuisines they’d like to try out together (they both get excited about hot pot), commiserate about the curse of restaurants who serve food on things that are decidedly not plates or bowls, Layla explains all the dishes in front of them even though she knows he already knows them and it’s all suddenly so easy and familiar. It’s reminiscent of them just a few months ago catching up over a plate of fries, her chattering away next to him as they pick through things at thrift shops, her chattering away next to him since the day she sat down, uninvited, at his table in the Sky High cafeteria. 

But Warren doesn’t want to forget entirely that tonight is different for them. It’s…special. He doesn’t want to forget that they’re on an actual, for real, date. 

As if she can read his mind (thank God that’s not her power), she reaches her foot over under the table to nudge his. Her smile goes soft, more nervous. “This feels surreal.” 

He swallows back his instinctive impulse to deflect, to joke, to say something deadpan. He dips his har gow into the little plate of chilli oil, but he places it back on his plate instead of taking a bite, lifting his eyes to meet hers. “In a bad way?”

“No! Of course not. Just…does it feel weird to be back here? Well not _here_ here, but Maxville? This side of the country?” 

Ah, right. He shrugs, poking at his little plate of soy sauce. “Weird, sure. Just from being away from here so long, getting used to familiar things again. Mostly I feel really motivated.” 

Layla’s smile strengthens at that, and he can feel her perking up. “Yeah? Tell me.” 

He pushes away his sudden feeling of shyness, focuses on her focused on him. “Well, my mom’s been helping me with my applications. To colleges, and for some financial aid. We’re really hoping for…for yours, obviously. And it’s looking good, fingers crossed. My mom’s been pulling out contacts from I don’t even know where and everyone’s been surprisingly helpful.” 

“That’s great you have her help. And you’re aiming for the fall semester next year?” He nods at that, and she chews thoughtfully on a bit of rice and the stir fried mustard greens. “So you’d be a freshman and I’d be a senior?” 

“Don’t look so smug about it, hippie.” 

“I’ll have so much wisdom to impart to you! As a wizened elder.” 

“I’m a year older than you and always will be.” 

Layla primly picks up an egg tart, smiling serenely. “We might get to hang out on campus, then. Get lunch some days.” 

“ _If_ I get in. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” The blush on Warren’s cheeks betrays the evenness of his tone, his cautious words. His housemates and colleagues have seen him stressed as all get out over his applications, over whether any college will take in some culinary school dropout with a bad family history, no credentials to speak of but pretty good grades from a high school for superheroes, and a couple of enthusiastic reference letters. With his mom’s pushing, he managed to get one each from Principal Powers and the dean of his former culinary school. Everyone from Miles to Evie has been fiercely supportive, and maybe when — _if_ — he gets in, he’ll tell Layla about all their cheerleading. 

“Warren Peace, doing a degree in hospitality management. I love it.” 

“What did I just say about not getting ahead of yourself? Anyway, I’m not 100% on it. But it feels like it might be a good idea to get a deeper knowledge of that side of things, if I wanna keep working in the food industry, or anywhere else really. Mom says I can always change my mind if I end up hating it.” 

“One of the people I work with at the campus co-op is studying the same thing, and she loves it! I can introduce you guys, she can tell you about her classes!”

He rolls his eyes at her enthusiasm, touched and a little embarassed. “Sure, so long as you don’t introduce yourself as my wizened elder.” She laughs at this, without a hint of self consciousness. It makes him smile, briefly, before he remembers the rest of what he wants to tell her.

“Um. Samira’s been helping me out too. I thought for sure she’d get mad about all this when I’d just agreed to be the new manager. But she’s really into the idea of me going back to school.”

“Oh yeah, what’s happening with the cafe?” 

“I’m training Jenny to take over,” He says with a grin, remembering the staff meeting they’d held in the kitchen after hours, Jenny seeming to grow 5 inches taller after Sam announced her plans. “And we’ve hired a couple new people to help on floor. Samira’s also got a friend out here with his own restaurant, and, we’ve been discussing a kind of…well she keeps calling it an apprenticeship but I think it’s just me working in the kitchens, and also shadowing the manager. Learning the ropes of running a place like that.” 

“That’s super cool. And when you say here, you mean…?” 

Warren feels a flush rise to his cheeks, and has to quickly check his hands for sparks. He clears his throat. “Like here. This city. It’s called Tapa Tío.” 

“Oh, I’ve heard of that place. Fancy. And so you’d start the same time you start college here when — oh, _sorry_ — _if_ you get in?” 

“Uh. Well. No. I’ll start in February. Work there through spring and summer. And if things fall through after that…I guess I’ll cross that bridge when it comes to it.” 

Layla’s eyes widen, blinking rapidly. She sets down her cutlery. “Wait. So. Wait. You’re moving here? Next year?” 

“Yeah. I’ve started looking for a place to stay, so if you hear of anybody looking for a roommate, or any cheap studios…” 

His heart’s racing. So much has happened in the past few months, after so much waiting and not being sure. When Rafael from Tapa Tío had gotten back to him (them, really — he’d taken the call with Samira in her office) and told him February, he’d said yes absolutely. He was and still is terrified, but he’d said yes. He’d thought — well, he’d thought of going on dates with Layla. Seeing her campus. Meeting her friends. Hopefully making his own so he’s not some needy hanger-on haunting her town, muscling in on her college experience. He didn’t want to do that, especially not after everything she’d shared with him in that letter, in their phone calls and texts afterwards. What he wanted…was to find his own place, one hopefully not too ramshackle, with a functioning kitchen where he could cook her another meal. More meals. Maybe they could go to the movies sometimes. Go out for hot pot. Have her bring him around to all her favourite spots. 

If she wants that. 

Layla’s looking at him like he’s sprouted another head, and he breathes through the moments as he watches it soften into something dreamier, still wondering and a little confused. She tilts her head and props it up with a loose fist, her elbow on the table. He remembers, for the umpteenth time, the first time they spoke at The Paper Lantern. Everything he didn’t know then about the girl sitting in front of him, about the version of him then sitting in front of her. Everything he would come to learn. 

“So you’re going to be here. In my timezone. In the same city. On my side of the country. Like, I could just call you to come meet me somewhere, and you could be there?” 

He points his small smile down to the dumplings, the smooth marbled surface of their table. It’s like something’s melting through his veins, a thawing, a loosening. 

“I guess it’d depend on where you’d want me to meet you. And how bad traffic was.” He’d meet her in a blizzard so they could watch paint dry. The corners of her mouth tick up at his teasing. 

“And do Tapa Tío’s sobrinos get lunch breaks?” The dreaminess on her face fades into something playful, a little giddy. He’s pretty sure his own expression mirrors hers. 

“I think they do. Definitely a couple of lunch breaks. Evenings off for lunch shifts, maybe. A weekend here and there.” 

“Amazing. One could do a lot with a couple lunch breaks and a weekend here and there.” Layla’s eyes are sparkling and bold, her smile sure, and Warren feels like he’s 16 again, being told, essentially, by some annoying perky freshman that they’re going to go to homecoming together. He wonders about the other boys since then who’ve been on the other side of this steady gaze, if they’d make the same mistake of underestimating the things that could come out of that guileless seeming mouth. Young Will Stronghold really never stood a chance. 

When he’s feeling more confident, when he’s not so full of jittery adrenaline from telling his friend, who he’s really into, on their first date, that he’s moving to her town soon, he’ll bite, play along. For now, he tries unsuccessfully to tamp down a grin, swallows one of the last dumplings whole as she laughs at him. 

“So. Are you here for Christmas, or…?” 

Layla’s still half laughing as she takes a sip of tea. “I’m taking the train home day after next. We’ll all be at the farm, of course.” He always forgets this, that Layla's mother and stepfather run a farm now that’s really a cobbled together sanctuary for abandoned and injured animals. He has no idea how that works, monetarily (a part of his brain wonders if this is Samira’s influence already at work), and files it away to diplomatically ask about another time. “What about you and your mom?” 

“We go for Chinese food on Christmas Eve. It’s tradition at this point.” 

“Oh my God — at the Lantern??” He nods, enjoying Layla’s utter surprise and delight. 

“My mom and Mrs Yap get along like a house on fire. The Lantern isn’t actually open on Christmas Eve, they just host this gigantic dinner for everyone on staff, since half the staff are family anyway.” 

“Warren…that’s the best thing I’ve heard.” 

He laughs at that. “Yeah, then on Christmas Day itself, one of my aunts hosts us all.” 

“Okay, you have to tell me exactly everything about this Christmas Eve dinner. Do you guys do presents? Is there a tree? Where would it even fit. What’s on the menu — what _has_ to be on the menu? Oh, what’ve you gotten your mom this year? I’m a bit nervous about my stepdad’s present; he likes everything anyone gets him, but somehow that makes me more determined to get him the perfect thing?” 

Their plates are clear long before they’re out of questions for each other. The staff refill their tea twice, maybe three times, maybe more. Warren of course picks up first when they’re pretty much the last ones there and the staff start cleaning up. As a busboy / waiter / cafe manager, he’s always hated Those People who never knew when to leave, and as much as he wants the hours to keep spinning out between him and Layla, he calls for the bill and asks Layla if he can drive her home. So she doesn’t walk home in the, um, cold again. 

She slides her arm through his easy as anything as he leads her back to his mom’s car, her hands gripping his bicep. She’s chattering again, but there are no nerves in her voice now. It’s a happy, frothy chatter and he feels it envelop them both. It carries them through the streets back to her apartment, carries them through the red and green lights, to the empty spot across from the entrance to her apartment building. The car goes quiet when he kills the engine, and the frothiness evaporates like a popped bubble. 

When he turns to her, she’s already looking at him. Her face is half in shadow where the lights of the streetlamps don’t quite reach. Her expression is not quite readable — a little abashed, a little searching, a hard edge glimmering and disappearing in turns. 

“Layla…” he starts, his low voice seeming to barely register in the silence.

“Walk me to my door?” She’s out of the car before he even realises she’s asked a question. He scrambles to climb out of the car, lock it, and follow after her, just remembering to look both ways before crossing, even though the road is fairly quiet. Her entryway is lit and empty, and she’s facing him with that inscrutable look again. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. 

“I had a really nice time tonight.” 

“I’m really glad to hear that.” His relief is sincere. “I had a really nice time, too. It was — it’s so good to see you.” 

“When you first saw me, did you still recognise me?” 

It’s a jolt to hear her say it, the words he’d texted her in a fit of so many feelings. 

“I don’t know what I was worried about, I think I’ll always recognise you, hippie.” It’s not at all a joke, and she knows it. Layla smiles, even as her brown eyes flash with something he doesn’t understand. She picks her arms up from her sides and wraps them around herself. She looks at him meaningfully. 

“The chill’s picking up again.” 

Time goes slow-slow-slow. She’s standing there in all the bright buzzing lights of the end of the night, and her words enter his mind once, enter twice, one more time before he picks up her meaning. And then he’s taking a small step closer, his hands leaving his coat pockets to tentatively reach for her. Their bodies curve towards each other, her arms uncurling and allowing him to slide his hands to her waist. She’s studying his face, brushing back the fine hairs at his temple, and he sees it — sees when her eyes drop from his own eyes to his lips, feels something roar to life in his gut when it happens. 

They’re pressed close-close-close. He’s lowering his head, eyelids half closed. He feels the words “Is this okay?” come out of his mouth. Maybe she says his name, exasperated, maybe she frantically nods, maybe she’s the one that pushes up that last little millimetre. 

Whatever it is, it disappears in their kiss. 

It disappears in the very real feeling of their lips against each other, in the sigh that maybe escapes them both, in the slide of his arms enveloping her whole, in the tightening of her fingers in the front of his coat, pinning him in place while they both learn what it means for them to fit this way together. 

He couldn’t tell you the definition of time after that. Her lips are so soft. Her slender fingers travel to his neck, a little cold. They trace the shells of his ears, the planes of his cheeks. He notes the small little hums she makes, the responsiveness of her mouth, her body, her hands, her everything against him, with him. When she opens her mouth to him, lightly scrapes against his bottom lip with her teeth, he stills for a breath or two before allowing himself to open too, their tongues and lips coming together for a delicious moment before he breaks away, breathing a little heavy in the close, intimate space between their faces. 

Layla doesn’t let him go too easily, places kisses against the corners of his mouth, the shaved-smooth line of his jaw, the high peak of his cheekbone. He can see the flush blanketing the bridge of her nose, her cheeks, from this close he can see the definition of her freckles. He tilts his head to capture her wandering lips for another kiss, and he feels her shiver in his arms, knowing it has nothing to do with the cold.

He creates a cocoon of warmth around them. Everything else has fallen away quite a while ago, anyway. They stop kissing at some point and she buries her face in his shoulder, and Warren feels wild with hope, grinning at the quiet night all around them.

“Come pick me up at the station when I come home.” Her voice is muffled but he hears the request. Or demand. Layla doesn’t always differentiate. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes. Please.” 

“Okay.” 

“My mom will want to show you the goats. And taste the yoghurt they’ve been making from the milk.” 

“Okay. Maybe you can come by to my mom’s with some of that — she’s into goat’s milk.” 

She lifts her face and turns it up to him. Her smile is brilliant, her eyes tender. 

“Deal.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY A KISS hahaha could I have dragged that out any longer (probably)
> 
> Thanks so much for anyone who's read this far, I hope you've liked the fic.


End file.
